The Reluctant Assassin Box Set Read online

  As mental acuity returned, Klaus wanted to know about news events. “Did the Wall open permanently?”

  His hosts assured him that it had. “People go back and forth freely every day. East Germans are moving into West Germany by the thousands. The entire East German government leadership resigned the day after the Wall opened. Helmut Kohl, the West German chancellor, is negotiating with the interim East German government to reunite the country.”

  Klaus did not know how to assess that piece of news. Before the Wall came down, preserving it had seemed to be of paramount importance as a means to maintain alliances, control the population, and have a ready supply of oppressed people for East German leaders and their Soviet masters to manipulate to their advantage. However, with five million dollars and a whole new world for Klaus to move around in—not to mention a nuclear bomb at his disposal—the possibilities seemed endless. Allah will be very happy with me.

  But first things first. He had to heal and recover strength. He would need identification for Western countries. Finally, he had to secure his money in a way that it could be moved easily. I need a good hawala. When all that was done, he could worry about undergoing surgery.

  Klaus felt comfortable moving about Berlin’s underworld. Despite the changing status of the two halves of Berlin, the city remained a hotbed of espionage, and with that came active black-market services. He knew only too well what they were, how to get them, and the dangers they presented. In his weakened state, those dangers were magnified as surely as vultures hovered around a dying carcass. He knew how to handle that as well. He kept his pistol within easy reach.

  When he felt strong enough, Klaus sought out a reliable hawala, a service that moved money instantaneously anywhere in the world. The system was ancient and relied on trust. A hawala at each end of the transaction kept immense amounts of cash handy and hired effective security. To cross one was to die a slow and painful death. Conversely, for a hawala to cheat a client invited the end of the business and a violent end to its service providers.

  When a client needed to send money, he would go to a local hawala, where he would pay the sum required to cover the transaction costs added to the amount to be sent. A phone call to a hawala near the cash recipient completed the transaction. The client there immediately received cash. The hawaladars, the people operating the hawalas, settled between themselves.

  The system allowed for untraceable movements of cash, perfect for Klaus’ purposes. To contact one, he turned to the Berlin Mosque on Brienner Strazze. The mosque had been in place since 1923 and served a large congregation. Klaus had begun attending sermons, making quiet inroads, and taking pains to become acquainted with the imam.

  After a couple of months, when the feeling of familiarity had settled in, Klaus gradually enhanced the quality of his clothes and appearance to be perceived as a businessman. When he felt confident in his associations, he went into the basement of the apartment building and pulled a large sum of money from one of his duffle bags, made his way to the mosque and delivered a generous contribution.

  He and the imam drank tea together. They spoke on various subjects. At a propitious moment, Klaus told the imam, “I’m prospering in the West. I want to expand my business to other countries. Will you please recommend the best hawaladar and make introductions?”

  When that arrangement was complete, and Klaus had delivered his cash into the safe hands of a hawaladar named Kadir, he made another contribution to the mosque. This time he asked the imam to recommend a surgeon in Berlin whose practice included shoulder replacement. “The doctor must be Muslim. I don’t want infidel hands on my body. But he must also be competent.”

  The imam promised to find the best surgeon meeting those criteria. Meanwhile, Klaus sought out less savory elements of the mosque, those familiar with illicit activity in Berlin, particularly high-quality forgery. Within weeks, he purchased stolen and superbly altered passports and drivers’ licenses complete with associated credit cards—the documents he needed to travel smoothly around the world with only normal scrutiny. They were attributable to multiple aliases.

  A few days later, the imam called. “I set you up for an appointment with the best Islamic orthopedic surgeon in Berlin, Dr. Burakgazi. He’s expecting your call.”

  2

  Austin, Texas, January 1991—Fourteen months after the Wall fell.

  “Not only no, but hell no! I won’t stand for it. You’ve done enough.” Sofia’s eyes blazed, and Atcho knew that now was not the time to discuss the matter further. He did not have much more to tell her anyway and knew her sense of duty would compel her to accept what must be—but later. He leaned across the table, picked up her hand, and kissed it.

  They were in a restaurant in downtown Austin. It was a quaint niche in an old historic building with a downstairs foyer and an upstairs dining area that doubled as a quiet bar with warm Texas chic. Since making the move from Washington, DC, it had become a favorite spot. It’s location and price tab made it a good place for privacy, and its atmosphere and great food made it desirable. Atcho had chosen it for this conversation to prepare her for forthcoming news which, at the moment, was only a hunch.

  Sofia’s reaction was expected. Her hunch matched Atcho’s.

  They finished their meal. Atcho rose to his feet. “I have to go to that meeting. I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

  Sofia stared at him distantly, and then nodded. “I’ll be there,” she said, and added softly, “maybe I’ll have news of my own.”

  A cold January wind blew through the streets as Atcho walked to his car. Thirty minutes later, he entered a secure conference room on the manufacturing compound of the company he had purchased nearly two years earlier. It was situated in a flat area a mile behind the cliffs of Mt. Bonnell, near Lake Austin in the Hill Country surrounding Texas’ capital city.

  A big man with a balding head stood to greet Atcho. He wore a serious expression that broke into a wide smile.

  Atcho extended his hand. “Burly, how good to see you.”

  Burly ignored the hand and wrapped his arms around Atcho in a bear hug. “You can greet others with a handshake,” he said. “We’ve been in too many scrapes together.”

  Atcho stepped back and looked up into the big, friendly face. “Yeah, and apparently you’re here to get me into another one. Sofia is already steamed.”

  Burly shook his head sadly. “I’m surprised she doesn’t hate me. You know I love her.” He walked across to a buffet and poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he looked around the room. “I hate to think that every time I come to town or speak with you, she thinks I’m recruiting you into a black op.” He leaned over the long conference table to scrutinize a piece of Texas bronze sculpture—a cowboy on a bucking bronco. “This sums up your life.” He chuckled. “Maybe you could tell me about your company.” He gazed around the room again. “These are impressive digs you’ve got here.”

  Atcho poured his own coffee. “There’s not much to tell beyond what you already know. Our product is classified top secret because of the alloys and manufacturing methods we use, and it’s of strategic importance to national security. The defense department is our customer. We don’t sell to commercial companies except as they need our product to fill their government contracts. The protocols for distribution are tight. We don’t let anyone come on this complex without a high security clearance.”

  “I know. Your people put me through the wringer to get in.”

  “We won’t even meet with vendors here. If they want to pitch us or conduct contract admin stuff, we meet them off-campus.”

  “Do you still have just two products?”

  “We have some projects in R&D, but nothing to be released anytime soon. I’m looking to expand into consumer goods, but the power source is still our primary product, and we’re working round the clock to keep up with demand. The NUKEX has limited use. There just aren’t that many suitcase nuclear bombs to disarm. The only units we sell are stored by various government a
gencies for ‘what if’ scenarios. Hope to God no one else ever has to use one.”

  Burly’s eyebrows arched. “That was some incredible stuff you and Sofia pulled off in Siberia, disarming that one.” He looked around the conference room again, taking in the rich rosewood paneling on the walls and the various pieces of distinctly Western paintings that adorned them. “You’ve adapted to Texas well.” He chuckled. “You got your Stetson, Justins, and denims yet?”

  Atcho smiled. “A Western shirt too, for when we go to the rodeo. Sofia tells me I look great in them—for a Cuban.” His voice took on an edge. “We like it here. We’re not anxious to leave.”

  “I know.” Burly pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “You’re the chairman? That’s impressive.”

  Atcho took a seat across from him. “Don’t get too impressed. I know enough to be dangerous. I got this company because I made a better offer than the other suitors.” He shrugged. “The founders were ready to expand out of start-up mode and needed second round financing. We were ready to leave DC.”

  “Your ties to the defense department didn’t hurt. You open a lot of doors.”

  “And you just made my point,” Atcho rejoined. “I’m not a techie. I barely understand the rudiments of what we do. I sold off a lot of my real estate holdings in DC to acquire controlling interest and buy our house here. I paid a premium to outbid the others trying to buy the company, and I happily agreed to limitations on how I could affect decisions. Frankly, the concerns and remedies the founders had on that score impressed me. I’m happy to let them run the business and keep me in the loop. We recruited some business operations and marketing expertise.” He grinned slightly. “Maybe some of the smarts of the whole crew will rub off into my feeble brain.”

  “Then if you were away for an extended time, that wouldn’t interrupt operations?”

  Atcho sucked in his breath and locked his eyes on Burly’s. “Sofia was right. When she heard you were not staying for dinner, she told me you were bringing me another mission. With the short heads-up, I thought so too. This isn’t a social visit.”

  “Guilty.” Burly stood to refill his coffee cup.

  “They brought you out of CIA retirement. Again. To be my case officer. Again.”

  “The powers that be know you like to work with your own team.”

  Atcho shoved his chair back. He leaned over, rested his elbows on his knees, and brought one hand to his forehead. After a minute, he looked up at his big friend, still standing by the buffet. “Do you know that Sofia and I are trying to have a baby?”

  Burly’s face lit up. “That’s great—”

  Atcho cut him off. “I won’t make her a black ops widow, and I don’t have many summers left to pull off the baby-making achievement.” He dropped his head again to stare at the floor. “If Sofia wasn’t twelve years younger than me, we wouldn’t have a chance. But it’s late in the day even for her.”

  Burly contemplated Atcho, his face grave. “I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t have come if—”

  “I know, I know,” Atcho interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I’m the only guy on the planet who can pull it off. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

  Burly re-took his seat. He leaned across the table. “Atcho.”

  Atcho did not move except to drop his hand from his face and interlace his fingers between his knees. He remained silent.

  “Atcho, please look at me.”

  Atcho raised his head, his eyes weary.

  “Do you trust me?”

  Atcho nodded somberly. “You know I do. You don’t even have to ask.”

  “Then believe me when I tell you. You really are the only guy to get this done.”

  Atcho held Burly’s steady gaze. “All right, give it to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Burly took a deep breath. “Klaus surfaced. He’s on the move.”

  3

  Five months earlier, August 2, 1990—Nine months after the Berlin Wall opened.

  Klaus waited outside his apartment building for a boy he had often seen there. He was a serious young man, diligent about religious studies. Although pleasant and respected among his peers, he rarely participated in their street games, preferring to sit nearby reading time-worn books. He and Klaus had crossed paths a few times and had engaged in light conversation.

  On this day, the boy had crossed the street on return from school. “Onur,” Klaus called. The young man waved and approached Klaus.

  After greetings, Klaus put his good arm around Onur’s shoulders. “I have a very important task and I need your help.”

  “Of course,” Onur replied. “Tell me what you need. I will do my best.”

  Earlier that morning, Klaus had taken the suitcase from its hiding place and dusted it off. It set by his knee. “This is a very special piece of equipment,” he said. “It’s a highly sophisticated camera, but as you can see, it’s camouflaged.” Onur’s eyes scrutinized the suitcase as Klaus spoke.

  “I need pictures of a particular building in Berlin, but I can’t take them myself. My face is too well-known. I need for you to do it for me. I’ve seen that you are responsible and reliable. I want you to perform this task for me.”

  Klaus watched Onur closely while he spoke. He saw the boy’s expression change from curiosity to veiled caution to being pleased as Klaus complimented him.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “It’s very simple. The technical aspects are set up. All you have to do is carry this suitcase to anywhere along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from the American Embassy. Stop and open it facing the embassy for no more than five seconds. Close it and bring it back to me.”

  Caution bordering on suspicion returned to Onur’s face. “Please tell me you don’t want me to blow myself up like the intifada martyrs in Palestine,” he joked, but his laugh was uneasy. “I hope to be an imam.”

  “No, no,” Klaus assured him. “If I intended you to be a martyr, I would have to tell you that, and you would have to do it willingly. My efforts are aimed at jihad.”

  He paused and looked around as if checking for anyone who might be listening. “We have someone inside the embassy who needs to pass on a piece of intelligence but can’t get out to give it to us. It’s time sensitive. That camera will take a high-density photo of the front of the embassy. We’ll be able to magnify it enough to read the document. It’ll be posted in one of the windows.”

  Onur was obviously impressed, but not convinced. “What if I’m caught?”

  “Caught doing what? Carrying a suitcase with a camera? Lots of people take pictures of the embassy. If you do this, I’ll pay you one thousand dollars.”

  Onur’s eyes widened with surprise, but then showed concern. “I’ll be happy to do it, but I should not be rewarded for helping you in the cause of Islam.”

  Klaus smiled. “You’re a great Muslim already, Onur. Your generosity should be rewarded. When you get back, I’ll donate a thousand dollars to the mosque in your name and pay you one thousand dollars. Maybe your mother needs a new stove?” He thrust a one-hundred-dollar bill at the boy. “Take a taxi. You can be there and back within an hour.”

  Onur stared at the money. He took it and the suitcase.

  Klaus gave him final guidance and watched him disappear down the street. Then he went to wait in the basement of the apartment building. Fortunately, the embassy is two miles away. The blast area is only a mile wide.

  Onur returned an hour later. Klaus was thrilled. The anti-tamper mechanism on the bomb didn’t work! Allah is truly guiding me. He felt fierce humility.

  True to his word, Klaus paid Onur and made the donation to the mosque. At Onur’s insistence, he met with the boy’s parents and explained the great service their son had provided. “He’s a good boy,” Onur’s mother said proudly.

  The next day, Klaus visited the old Stasi building in the former East Berlin. The headquarters of the former East German secret police had fallen into disrepair since he had last seen it.
That had been the night the Wall fell.

  The lobby was the scene of the gunfight that had damaged his shoulder. The building was all but empty now, protected by a few policemen and staffed by civilian volunteers who helped people search archives for records of atrocities committed against them, their friends, and relatives.

  Seven stories high and several blocks long, this edifice had been built specifically to inflict cruelty in order to intimidate East Germans into uncomplaining submission. It housed the offices where the master plans for constructing the Wall and the eight-hundred-mile fortified border and their kill zones were hatched. It was where orders went out to imprison and torture hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children over the course of the Stasi’s forty-four-year life. The building had also housed the most horrific of all prisons in East Germany.

  When Klaus had escaped from the firefight last November, he had held tight to the suitcase bomb he had retrieved. He had stopped only long enough to grab some discarded cloths and stuff them around his shoulder to stop the bleeding. Otherwise, he stayed with the crowds as they joined the million-strong East Berliners moving toward Checkpoint Charlie and other crossing points.

  Five days later, a mob of angry citizens invaded the Stasi headquarters. They had overturned furniture and equipment, emptied file cabinets onto the floor, and vandalized the building in expressions of revulsion for the organization and the officers who had brutalized their lives for decades.

  Fortunately, cooler heads had prevailed. The vandalism stopped for practical reasons: the East German government, including the Stasi, had been meticulous record-keepers. The files at the Stasi headquarters held evidence that could convict the previous tormentors and lead to sentencing them.

  Seeing the building again felt surreal to Klaus. Ghosts of memories played on his mind as he stepped over debris and entered the foyer. No one had cleaned the mess of that night. Bloodstains remained on the floor. They had to be his own or those of his dead fellow conspirator, Borya Yermolov. Across the foyer was a hall from which shots had been fired that took Klaus down. And there was the spot where he had last seen his nemesis, Atcho. Klaus’ nostrils flared at the recollection.